So six of seven Republican members of the Senate Judiciary Committee voted against recommending Sonia Sotomayor to the full Senate for confirmation, with poor Lindsay Graham the only consenting senator. Then Michael Steele, erstwhile Republican National Committee Chairman, begged off from attending a National Council of La Raza meeting (the largest Latino advocacy group in the country), because he was attending some RNC get-together in California. Moreover, he couldn't even be bothered to find a Republican governor from some backwater state to fill in.
Is it just me, or are the Republicans purposely pissing-off the Latinos? The Latino vote has become increasingly important, as they register in larger numbers and continue to slide towards the Democrats. I swear, I almost suspect the powers that be in the Republican Party are intent on burning their house down just to start over.
Today's news has it the Blue Dog Democrats are starting to side with Republicans in an attempt to derail President Obama's health care initiative. At this point, Nancy Pelosi needs to earn her keep, and herd these yahoos into line. Grow some brass ones, Nancy. Threaten them. Promise to pull plumb committee assignments. Tell them we'll yank their campaign funding and run progressives in the primaries. These DINO's (Democrats In Name Only) are going to have to be purged eventually, anyway. Let them scurry to the Republican side and find out what it's like to be in the wilderness.
The Governator just signed a budget that will close at least 100 of California's 279 state parks. We don't have the final list yet, but rumoured to be on the chopping block is one of may favorite places, Picacho State Park on the Colorado River. According to the California State Parks Foundation, our state parks return some $4.2 billion in economic benefits, through ripple effects, to the state's local economies. Even before the recent cuts, just 1/10th of one percent of the entire state budget funded our state parks, and for every dollar spent, $2.35 was returned to the general fund from taxes generated by consumer spending. Talk about being penny wise and pound foolish.
My questions: since the parks are public property, are they really closed? What's to stop me from showing up at Picacho and going fishing or hunting anyway? If it's closed, I assume that means there won't be a ranger there to tell me it's closed. They'll just post some sign saying the park is no longer in operation. Can't I just go anyway? Can I bring my dog now, or is that still against the rules? I'm confused.
Finally, am I the only person who's sick of the Chase Bank commercial featuring a butchered version of John Lennon's "Instant Karma?" The poor guy has to be spinning in his grave. If Yoko is behind this -- and I suspect she is -- I hope she rots in purgatory for an eternity. I've worn out the mute button on my remote.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Adventure In the High Uintas Wilderness
When we arrived, we thought it somewhat odd there were only two other cars parked at the Uinta River Trailhead last Sunday. About a half-hour into our hike, we encountered a day-hiker on her way out. She was to be the last human being we would see for six days.
Indeed, if one is seeking a combination of solitude and grandeur, the High Uintas Wilderness of Northeast Utah may be one of the finest destinations in the contiguous United States. Add the outstanding angling and abundant wildlife viewing and this was to be one of my favorite backpacking experiences.
Only two drawbacks: first, we live in Southern California, so it's a thirteen hour drive to the trailhead. Second, the trails are brutal. I'm used to the well-worn tracks of the High Sierra. The Uinta River trails, however, are faint, often difficult to follow and -- my God -- they are rocky! We walked for miles through rock-strewn paths: ankle-breakers to boulders the size of my dog, debris fields hundreds of yards wide, rocky and treacherous stream crossings. Never have I so had to concentrate on each step, and never have my feet so ached at the end of the day.
On day one, we aimed for the aptly-named Rock Canyon Creek, hustling to make it ahead of an impending afternoon thunderstorm. We were five minutes too late. The rain was intermixed with pea-sized hail, and I soon discovered my five-year old Gore Tex jacket was no longer waterproof (haven't worn it in the rain in three years). On the bright side, the weather only lasted thirty minutes, and we were able to collect enough hail from our tents to make iced cocktails before dinner.
The Uinta River gorge is deep and spectacular. The river was high and busy with snow melt, and the confluences with side creeks were violent and awe-inspiring. Particularly impressive is the view from the lip of the canyon where Atwood Creek pours in from the opposite side.
Day two brought us a brutal ten-mile climb to our base camp, a spot just east of North Fork Park. We spent three nights camped there, taking day trips up and down the North Fork Uinta and up to the twin Kidney Lakes. Angling in the river was outstanding for pan-sized brookies, and the Kidney's yielded one nice cutthroat and some huge brook trout. I caught my biggest back country brookie from South Kidney, a fourteen-inch monster that was a challenge on my two-pound test spinning outfit. Alas, I lugged my fly rig up the mountain for no apparent reason, having left my leaders at home. Sometimes I'm such a dimwit.
North Fork Park (out here on the West Coast we would call it a meadow) was pristine and beautiful. The river flows busily through it, but with enough pockets of slack water to provide good angling. Small side creeks flow into the main river from both sides of the valley in frequent intervals.
The camp site we chose was apparently a prime feeding location for mule deer, because we had visitors often. The deer would stroll right into camp, feeding quietly. They seemed almost tame. If the dogs were asleep (which was often) we could sit and watch them for as much as five minutes before they moved on. If the dogs were awake and barked at them, the deer never showed alarm. Instead, they simply shrugged and sauntered off, as if to say "fine, we'll eat elsewhere."
The hike out on Friday was noteworthy only because we finally ran into another hiker, at the Shale Creek Bridge. He told us he had been hiking throughout the Uintas for years and rarely did he see other backpackers. (An aside: my map of the High Uintas has a bunch of shaded areas labeled "Areas of Concentrated Use." As an experienced High Sierra backpacker used to dealing with herds of humanity, I can only conclude this term must be relative to location.)
The hoards of early-season mosquitoes we were promised never materialized, and after the first day the weather cooperated. We had the solitude we so crave. In all, I'd say my first foray into the High Uintas Wilderness was an unqualified success. I think I'll try it again next summer. Maybe two weeks this time.
Indeed, if one is seeking a combination of solitude and grandeur, the High Uintas Wilderness of Northeast Utah may be one of the finest destinations in the contiguous United States. Add the outstanding angling and abundant wildlife viewing and this was to be one of my favorite backpacking experiences.
Only two drawbacks: first, we live in Southern California, so it's a thirteen hour drive to the trailhead. Second, the trails are brutal. I'm used to the well-worn tracks of the High Sierra. The Uinta River trails, however, are faint, often difficult to follow and -- my God -- they are rocky! We walked for miles through rock-strewn paths: ankle-breakers to boulders the size of my dog, debris fields hundreds of yards wide, rocky and treacherous stream crossings. Never have I so had to concentrate on each step, and never have my feet so ached at the end of the day.
On day one, we aimed for the aptly-named Rock Canyon Creek, hustling to make it ahead of an impending afternoon thunderstorm. We were five minutes too late. The rain was intermixed with pea-sized hail, and I soon discovered my five-year old Gore Tex jacket was no longer waterproof (haven't worn it in the rain in three years). On the bright side, the weather only lasted thirty minutes, and we were able to collect enough hail from our tents to make iced cocktails before dinner.
The Uinta River gorge is deep and spectacular. The river was high and busy with snow melt, and the confluences with side creeks were violent and awe-inspiring. Particularly impressive is the view from the lip of the canyon where Atwood Creek pours in from the opposite side.
Day two brought us a brutal ten-mile climb to our base camp, a spot just east of North Fork Park. We spent three nights camped there, taking day trips up and down the North Fork Uinta and up to the twin Kidney Lakes. Angling in the river was outstanding for pan-sized brookies, and the Kidney's yielded one nice cutthroat and some huge brook trout. I caught my biggest back country brookie from South Kidney, a fourteen-inch monster that was a challenge on my two-pound test spinning outfit. Alas, I lugged my fly rig up the mountain for no apparent reason, having left my leaders at home. Sometimes I'm such a dimwit.
North Fork Park (out here on the West Coast we would call it a meadow) was pristine and beautiful. The river flows busily through it, but with enough pockets of slack water to provide good angling. Small side creeks flow into the main river from both sides of the valley in frequent intervals.
The camp site we chose was apparently a prime feeding location for mule deer, because we had visitors often. The deer would stroll right into camp, feeding quietly. They seemed almost tame. If the dogs were asleep (which was often) we could sit and watch them for as much as five minutes before they moved on. If the dogs were awake and barked at them, the deer never showed alarm. Instead, they simply shrugged and sauntered off, as if to say "fine, we'll eat elsewhere."
The hike out on Friday was noteworthy only because we finally ran into another hiker, at the Shale Creek Bridge. He told us he had been hiking throughout the Uintas for years and rarely did he see other backpackers. (An aside: my map of the High Uintas has a bunch of shaded areas labeled "Areas of Concentrated Use." As an experienced High Sierra backpacker used to dealing with herds of humanity, I can only conclude this term must be relative to location.)
The hoards of early-season mosquitoes we were promised never materialized, and after the first day the weather cooperated. We had the solitude we so crave. In all, I'd say my first foray into the High Uintas Wilderness was an unqualified success. I think I'll try it again next summer. Maybe two weeks this time.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Republicans Smear Sotomayor For Being Liberal
They can't seem to nail her on this Ricci thing. Even Lindsay Graham admits her past judicial decisions have been largely "in the mainstream." They can't call her inexperienced; she has over seven-teen years on the bench. So in the end, Republicans on the Senate Judiciary Committee have resorted to a tried and true approach in attacking Judge Sonia Sotomayor, President Obama's first appointment to the Supreme Court: they say she's too liberal.
Let's leave aside for a moment that the Republicans have been routed the past two elections by liberal Democrats elected by an increasingly liberal electorate. Let's forget conservative dogma has been repudiated by thirty years of failed Reaganomics and eight years of the most absurd and bungled presidency in our history. Let's instead focus on the real story here, a truth so dark and frightening for congressional Republicans they dare not speak it aloud: the word "liberal" is no longer a pejorative.
For fifty years now Republicans have used the word "liberal" to portray Democrats as out-of-touch elitists. They succeeded in making the word synonymous with "un-American." Frustrated Democrats began describing themselves as "progressives" or even as "moderates" rather than admit their liberal-ness.
Sucks for you, conservative Republicans, but the word "liberal" is back in vogue, and I don't mean as an insult. Bleeding hearts like Bernie Sanders (a socialist), Barney Frank (a gay man) and Dennis Kucinich (to the left of FDR) wear the word like a badge of honor. In California, Diane Feinstein has been pilloried for not being liberal enough, and the Governator has lost his Republican base by tacking ever more strongly to the left -- because the electorate demanded it.
In this political environment, hammering Sonia Sotomayor for being too liberal is like punishing Kobe Bryant for being too athletic, a tactic as ridiculous as it is pointless. That Republicans have to resort to name-calling at this stage merely accentuates how powerless and inconsequential they have become. Welcome to the wilderness, Republicans.
Let's leave aside for a moment that the Republicans have been routed the past two elections by liberal Democrats elected by an increasingly liberal electorate. Let's forget conservative dogma has been repudiated by thirty years of failed Reaganomics and eight years of the most absurd and bungled presidency in our history. Let's instead focus on the real story here, a truth so dark and frightening for congressional Republicans they dare not speak it aloud: the word "liberal" is no longer a pejorative.
For fifty years now Republicans have used the word "liberal" to portray Democrats as out-of-touch elitists. They succeeded in making the word synonymous with "un-American." Frustrated Democrats began describing themselves as "progressives" or even as "moderates" rather than admit their liberal-ness.
Sucks for you, conservative Republicans, but the word "liberal" is back in vogue, and I don't mean as an insult. Bleeding hearts like Bernie Sanders (a socialist), Barney Frank (a gay man) and Dennis Kucinich (to the left of FDR) wear the word like a badge of honor. In California, Diane Feinstein has been pilloried for not being liberal enough, and the Governator has lost his Republican base by tacking ever more strongly to the left -- because the electorate demanded it.
In this political environment, hammering Sonia Sotomayor for being too liberal is like punishing Kobe Bryant for being too athletic, a tactic as ridiculous as it is pointless. That Republicans have to resort to name-calling at this stage merely accentuates how powerless and inconsequential they have become. Welcome to the wilderness, Republicans.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
News Of the Week In Review
We found out this week that, in death, Michael Jackson was an even bigger ratings boost for the networks than when he was being tried as an alleged pedophile.
We learned the city of Los Angeles forked over as much as $3 million to host the funeral of a private citizen. This must be heart warming to all those laid-off municipal employees and school teachers, not to mention the citizens whose services have been cut and whose children's class sizes have swelled to unmanageable levels.
We learned that, as of Friday, a web site asking for donations to reimburse L.A. for the funeral had collected a paltry $35,000. Would that some of you self-professed M. Jackson lovers put your money where your mouth is.
We have our latest member in the "Yes, I'm a Stinking Hypocrite" club: meet John Ensign, Republican Senator from Nevada, another in a long line of "Family Values" Republicans who just can't seem to keep it in their pants. This one is even more sordid than usual; seems Ensign's parents gave his mistress some $100,000 in hush money as Ensign sought to keep the affair secret. She sang anyway, leaving Ensign looking both stupid and hypocritical. Somewhere a certain ex-President is laughing his ass off.
Scientists say we may be headed for a "major" El Nino event this winter. This means that in addition to the annual fall conflagrations and random earthquakes, California can look forward to torrential rainstorms and the inevitable mudslides and wanton destruction of which we are so fond. On the bright side, should be some nice wildflower displays next spring.
Seriously, at some point a major California politician needs to grow a pair and state the obvious: quit building homes in places where we know for certain they will eventually either burn or get washed off the mountain. Us low-landers are getting tired of footing the bill for rich folks who knowingly put their homes in harm's way. If you want a nice view, climb Mt. Baldy.
We learned the city of Los Angeles forked over as much as $3 million to host the funeral of a private citizen. This must be heart warming to all those laid-off municipal employees and school teachers, not to mention the citizens whose services have been cut and whose children's class sizes have swelled to unmanageable levels.
We learned that, as of Friday, a web site asking for donations to reimburse L.A. for the funeral had collected a paltry $35,000. Would that some of you self-professed M. Jackson lovers put your money where your mouth is.
We have our latest member in the "Yes, I'm a Stinking Hypocrite" club: meet John Ensign, Republican Senator from Nevada, another in a long line of "Family Values" Republicans who just can't seem to keep it in their pants. This one is even more sordid than usual; seems Ensign's parents gave his mistress some $100,000 in hush money as Ensign sought to keep the affair secret. She sang anyway, leaving Ensign looking both stupid and hypocritical. Somewhere a certain ex-President is laughing his ass off.
Scientists say we may be headed for a "major" El Nino event this winter. This means that in addition to the annual fall conflagrations and random earthquakes, California can look forward to torrential rainstorms and the inevitable mudslides and wanton destruction of which we are so fond. On the bright side, should be some nice wildflower displays next spring.
Seriously, at some point a major California politician needs to grow a pair and state the obvious: quit building homes in places where we know for certain they will eventually either burn or get washed off the mountain. Us low-landers are getting tired of footing the bill for rich folks who knowingly put their homes in harm's way. If you want a nice view, climb Mt. Baldy.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Selling Ice Cubes To Eskimos
My Pop Warner Football Fund Raising Adventure
I should have known something was up the moment I walked into the meeting room that morning. It was our first team meeting for the Yorba Linda Colts, my son's Junior Mighty Mite Pop Warner Football team, and I was met by an unholy stench; it was an odd mixture of a florist shop, the cosmetics counter at Macy's and my ex-wife's bathroom.
The head coach began speaking. "I know we usually sell candy or frozen pizza as our team fund raising program, but we're trying something new this year. Let me introduce the team Mom."
The team Mom walked to the front of the room, proudly displaying her wares. "This year we'll be selling these beautiful scented candles. They feature double wicks, non-dripping wax, and come in over a dozen tantalizing aromas . . ." At this point, most of the men in the room were groaning, and at least three appeared to be visibly sick. Me, I remained stoic. It was a composure born of a stubborn belief I can sell almost anything to almost anybody. Either that or I was in abject shock.
I've peddled all sorts of crap to help fund my son's various sporting and scholastic endeavors. Frozen cardboard (I mean pizza), cookie dough (Salmonella, anyone?), and wrapping paper are a few of the items I've foisted on unsuspecting family and friends over the years. But scented candles? I had the feeling this wasn't going to be the slam-dunk the team mom might have thought it was.
My ex-wife was going to have it easy; all she had to do was parade my son door-to-door around the neighborhood, cornering other moms and the occasional blue-haired retiree. These people, of course, are the target customers for such a product. What woman can resist the overtures of a tow-headed eight year-old trying to raise money for his football team, particularly when the product smells nice?
I didn't have that luxury. I only get to see my son about four days a month, and I was unwilling to waste any of that precious time hawking scented candles to innocent neighbors, even if it is a good cause. This left me just one place to go if I was going to meet my candle quota, the one place in America where the victim is always captive, where they can't slam the door and they can't run away: the workplace.
So I spent the week suffering the indignity of pitching scented candles to my co-workers. The women, thank God, were easy marks -- I was selling a product they actually found interesting. Unfortunately, we only have four females at my office, and one was on vacation. This was going to leave me far short of my quota. I was left with no choice but to target my male co-workers.
I don't think I'll ever get out of my mind the somewhat disturbing image of a forty-two year old man scratching and sniffing a page labeled "Strawberry Delight." Nor will I soon escape the stigma and shame of asking grown men to fork over twenty-four bucks for a scented candle, a product that -- should it not end up in the trash -- will at the very least cover their furniture with the stench of a cheap bordello.
But let's leave that aside for a moment and ponder the obvious questions: Scented candles? For a football fund raiser? Talk about your non sequiter. Could they possibly have picked a less manly product for such a venture? I might have understood had the candles come in aromas such as "Eau du Jock Strap" or "Unwashed Socks," but "Kiwi Surprise" and "Pineapple Sunrise?" How un-football like. Do I even need to mention it was a woman who thought up this hare-brained scheme? Will I be expected to sell Vermont Teddy Bears and Harlequin romance novels next season?
I had to guilt the poor bastards at my office into buying the things. I felt dirty when I left at night.
Anyway, I did my part. I finally hit my quota by forcing my sister to purchase a "Very Berry" and an "Outrageous Orange." Our seven and eight year old football players will proudly wear matching socks when they take the field this fall, and every boy will get his "esteem building" trophy at the season's conclusion. But at what cost? Now, my co-workers scurry like roaches when they see me coming. I'm concerned my brother in-law will try to poison me the next time I'm invited for dinner. My pride may be damaged beyond repair, and my reputation at work is irreparably soiled. All things considered, I think I'd rather sell cardboard pizza.
I should have known something was up the moment I walked into the meeting room that morning. It was our first team meeting for the Yorba Linda Colts, my son's Junior Mighty Mite Pop Warner Football team, and I was met by an unholy stench; it was an odd mixture of a florist shop, the cosmetics counter at Macy's and my ex-wife's bathroom.
The head coach began speaking. "I know we usually sell candy or frozen pizza as our team fund raising program, but we're trying something new this year. Let me introduce the team Mom."
The team Mom walked to the front of the room, proudly displaying her wares. "This year we'll be selling these beautiful scented candles. They feature double wicks, non-dripping wax, and come in over a dozen tantalizing aromas . . ." At this point, most of the men in the room were groaning, and at least three appeared to be visibly sick. Me, I remained stoic. It was a composure born of a stubborn belief I can sell almost anything to almost anybody. Either that or I was in abject shock.
I've peddled all sorts of crap to help fund my son's various sporting and scholastic endeavors. Frozen cardboard (I mean pizza), cookie dough (Salmonella, anyone?), and wrapping paper are a few of the items I've foisted on unsuspecting family and friends over the years. But scented candles? I had the feeling this wasn't going to be the slam-dunk the team mom might have thought it was.
My ex-wife was going to have it easy; all she had to do was parade my son door-to-door around the neighborhood, cornering other moms and the occasional blue-haired retiree. These people, of course, are the target customers for such a product. What woman can resist the overtures of a tow-headed eight year-old trying to raise money for his football team, particularly when the product smells nice?
I didn't have that luxury. I only get to see my son about four days a month, and I was unwilling to waste any of that precious time hawking scented candles to innocent neighbors, even if it is a good cause. This left me just one place to go if I was going to meet my candle quota, the one place in America where the victim is always captive, where they can't slam the door and they can't run away: the workplace.
So I spent the week suffering the indignity of pitching scented candles to my co-workers. The women, thank God, were easy marks -- I was selling a product they actually found interesting. Unfortunately, we only have four females at my office, and one was on vacation. This was going to leave me far short of my quota. I was left with no choice but to target my male co-workers.
I don't think I'll ever get out of my mind the somewhat disturbing image of a forty-two year old man scratching and sniffing a page labeled "Strawberry Delight." Nor will I soon escape the stigma and shame of asking grown men to fork over twenty-four bucks for a scented candle, a product that -- should it not end up in the trash -- will at the very least cover their furniture with the stench of a cheap bordello.
But let's leave that aside for a moment and ponder the obvious questions: Scented candles? For a football fund raiser? Talk about your non sequiter. Could they possibly have picked a less manly product for such a venture? I might have understood had the candles come in aromas such as "Eau du Jock Strap" or "Unwashed Socks," but "Kiwi Surprise" and "Pineapple Sunrise?" How un-football like. Do I even need to mention it was a woman who thought up this hare-brained scheme? Will I be expected to sell Vermont Teddy Bears and Harlequin romance novels next season?
I had to guilt the poor bastards at my office into buying the things. I felt dirty when I left at night.
Anyway, I did my part. I finally hit my quota by forcing my sister to purchase a "Very Berry" and an "Outrageous Orange." Our seven and eight year old football players will proudly wear matching socks when they take the field this fall, and every boy will get his "esteem building" trophy at the season's conclusion. But at what cost? Now, my co-workers scurry like roaches when they see me coming. I'm concerned my brother in-law will try to poison me the next time I'm invited for dinner. My pride may be damaged beyond repair, and my reputation at work is irreparably soiled. All things considered, I think I'd rather sell cardboard pizza.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Random Thoughts on the Day's News
or, Michael Jackson Is Still Dead
For the love of all that is holy, please bury the man. Have your multi-million dollar "celebration." Hell, have a parade if you want. Just please get him off my T.V. It's All Jackson All the Time, and I just can't stand it any more. Dead is dead.
There are so many more compelling stories out there. Sarah Palin just resigned from office. Isn't this a more interesting story line than the death of an alleged pedophile and so-called pop icon? Sarah fancies herself the front-runner for the 2012 Republican presidential nomination, yet if she can't stand the heat of an Alaskan kitchen, what makes anyone think she can survive the crucible of national presidential politics? If she's still considered the favorite, the Republicans are in even worse shape than we hoped.
Al Franken was just admitted to the Senate. Which is more improbable, that a former "B" grade movie star could become president, or that a Saturday Night Live comedy writer could rise to represent the good people of Minnesota in the U.S. Senate? Bill O'Rilley was absolutely apoplectic; he cites the Franken election as proof the country is in really sorry shape. Of course, Bill and his ilk have conveniently forgotten who got us into this mess.
Finally, if the Lakers and their benefactors can pay for a parade and celebration, saving the cash-strapped city of Los Angeles millions, why can't all those rich Hollywood celebrities find a way to pay for this Jackson fiasco? If I lived in L.A. County, I'd be pissed. If I were a layed-off city employee, I'd be really pissed. Moreover, in these economic times, such an ostentatious display should be an affront to the sensibilities of every Angeleno. Please make Michael Jackson go away. Now. Forever.
For the love of all that is holy, please bury the man. Have your multi-million dollar "celebration." Hell, have a parade if you want. Just please get him off my T.V. It's All Jackson All the Time, and I just can't stand it any more. Dead is dead.
There are so many more compelling stories out there. Sarah Palin just resigned from office. Isn't this a more interesting story line than the death of an alleged pedophile and so-called pop icon? Sarah fancies herself the front-runner for the 2012 Republican presidential nomination, yet if she can't stand the heat of an Alaskan kitchen, what makes anyone think she can survive the crucible of national presidential politics? If she's still considered the favorite, the Republicans are in even worse shape than we hoped.
Al Franken was just admitted to the Senate. Which is more improbable, that a former "B" grade movie star could become president, or that a Saturday Night Live comedy writer could rise to represent the good people of Minnesota in the U.S. Senate? Bill O'Rilley was absolutely apoplectic; he cites the Franken election as proof the country is in really sorry shape. Of course, Bill and his ilk have conveniently forgotten who got us into this mess.
Finally, if the Lakers and their benefactors can pay for a parade and celebration, saving the cash-strapped city of Los Angeles millions, why can't all those rich Hollywood celebrities find a way to pay for this Jackson fiasco? If I lived in L.A. County, I'd be pissed. If I were a layed-off city employee, I'd be really pissed. Moreover, in these economic times, such an ostentatious display should be an affront to the sensibilities of every Angeleno. Please make Michael Jackson go away. Now. Forever.
Monday, July 6, 2009
My Weekend In the Southern Sierra
Just returned from a solo, three-day backpacking trip in the Golden Trout Wilderness in the Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains. Took a walk from Lewis Camp Trail head down to the Little Kern, looking for the elusive Little Kern Golden Trout (oncorhynchus aguabonita whitei), a subspecies of our State Fish.
In one of my dumbest moves ever, as I set up camp I realized I had somehow forgotten to pack my sleeping bag. (When I packed at home Friday morning, I remember thinking: "Seems I have a lot more room for my gear than usual.") I had to sleep in my jacket and down pants, yet awoke both mornings at three A.M., shivering. Ended up pacing around the campsite for two hours each morning praying the sun would rise earlier than usual. I tend to forget one or two items each trip, despite my obsession with lists, but never have I neglected to bring one of the "big three." Sheesh, next time I'll probably forget to bring my pack.
Despite my lack of sleep, I managed to get in some fishing Saturday. Access to the Little Kern in this area is, to say the least, difficult. The gorge is narrow and steep, and defined by huge expanses of granite that are impossible to traverse. Reaching the pools and runs that harbor the golden trout requires considerable (and dangerous) effort. As I scrambled down a steep pitch south of my camp, I remember thinking "if I break an ankle here, I'm probably a goner, because nobody knows where I am and nobody would think to look in such an inhospitable place."
Anyway, I managed to make it to the river without incident. I hooked and landed nine of the little yellow buggers (including an eleven-inch, my biggest golden yet from a stream) before the dog's barking and whining convinced me to let her take a swim, ruining the fishing.
Sadie is the least fishing-friendly dog I've ever known. When bass fishing she's constantly "falling" in the water (falling in parenthesis because I'm pretty sure she's doing it on purpose at least half the time). When stream fishing I have to tie her to a tree to keep her from thrashing into the water, chasing my lure like the knucklehead she is. But when tied up she whines and barks incessantly, not exactly the serene and peaceful fishing experience to which I usually aspire.
After another almost sleepless night, I awoke at three-thirty to find no stars in the eastern sky. It took me several moments before I realized the stars were obscured not by clouds, but by smoke. By daylight, the lightening-caused fire (which I later found was near the confluence of Shotgun Creek and the Little Kern, about ten miles from my camp) had spread a pallor of smoke and ash over the lower Little Kern. My subsequent hike back to the trail head, five miles and about two thousand feet of elevation gain, was not fun. By the time I reached my truck, my eyes burned, my throat was sore and my lungs felt as if I'd chain-smoked five packs of Winstons. But I did catch those yellow fish, so count my long weekend a success.
In one of my dumbest moves ever, as I set up camp I realized I had somehow forgotten to pack my sleeping bag. (When I packed at home Friday morning, I remember thinking: "Seems I have a lot more room for my gear than usual.") I had to sleep in my jacket and down pants, yet awoke both mornings at three A.M., shivering. Ended up pacing around the campsite for two hours each morning praying the sun would rise earlier than usual. I tend to forget one or two items each trip, despite my obsession with lists, but never have I neglected to bring one of the "big three." Sheesh, next time I'll probably forget to bring my pack.
Despite my lack of sleep, I managed to get in some fishing Saturday. Access to the Little Kern in this area is, to say the least, difficult. The gorge is narrow and steep, and defined by huge expanses of granite that are impossible to traverse. Reaching the pools and runs that harbor the golden trout requires considerable (and dangerous) effort. As I scrambled down a steep pitch south of my camp, I remember thinking "if I break an ankle here, I'm probably a goner, because nobody knows where I am and nobody would think to look in such an inhospitable place."
Anyway, I managed to make it to the river without incident. I hooked and landed nine of the little yellow buggers (including an eleven-inch, my biggest golden yet from a stream) before the dog's barking and whining convinced me to let her take a swim, ruining the fishing.
Sadie is the least fishing-friendly dog I've ever known. When bass fishing she's constantly "falling" in the water (falling in parenthesis because I'm pretty sure she's doing it on purpose at least half the time). When stream fishing I have to tie her to a tree to keep her from thrashing into the water, chasing my lure like the knucklehead she is. But when tied up she whines and barks incessantly, not exactly the serene and peaceful fishing experience to which I usually aspire.
After another almost sleepless night, I awoke at three-thirty to find no stars in the eastern sky. It took me several moments before I realized the stars were obscured not by clouds, but by smoke. By daylight, the lightening-caused fire (which I later found was near the confluence of Shotgun Creek and the Little Kern, about ten miles from my camp) had spread a pallor of smoke and ash over the lower Little Kern. My subsequent hike back to the trail head, five miles and about two thousand feet of elevation gain, was not fun. By the time I reached my truck, my eyes burned, my throat was sore and my lungs felt as if I'd chain-smoked five packs of Winstons. But I did catch those yellow fish, so count my long weekend a success.
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